Autograph
by Lake of Rage
Summary: When Marth arrives in Askr, he isn't sure what to make of it. After all, how could someone like him be a hero? Then he meets a fan who changes his mind.


To say that Marth's arrival in Askr had been strange would be an understatement of epic proportions.

Just the concept of being abruptly transported to another world was bizarre enough on its own, much less the concept of a divine weapon which routinely rended space-time in search of "heroes" from different dimensions. Even ignoring the obvious logistical questions raised by the existence of such a weapon, Marth had to wonder how―and, more pertinently, _why―_ the weapon had come to choose _him,_ of all people.

After all, how did it decide who was a "hero" and who was not? Did it have a consciousness of its own? If so, did that consciousness have the ability to peer into different worlds and observe the candidates there? What criteria need be met in order for a divine weapon to deem one worthy? Could it magically glean some objective measure of strength and battle prowess?

No, that couldn't be―if that was the case, then Breidablik, with its unerring sight, surely would have found Marth lacking.

Regardless of its methods, it had apparently decided that Marth met its standards. One moment, he'd been safe at home; the next, he was emerging from a burst of smoke and light with no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there. Before he could ask any questions, or even have the time to think of questions to ask, he was half-hugged, half-tackled by an enthusiastic figure in a tasteful white cloak who then proceeded to run off in excitement before he could even catch a glimpse of their face.

Prince Alfonse and Princess Shareena had been exceedingly gracious hosts, but they were clearly strapped for time, because everything happened so quickly that his head spun. All three of them speedwalked through the enormous castle as the Askran royals spoke, Alfonse explaining how Marth had come to be there and the nature of Askr's plight while Shareena occasionally interjected with a quick tidbit of information― _that's the mess hall, it's open 24/7; you're likely to see people you know, but they might not always be how you remember them; the training grounds are out through that door, don't hesitate to utilize them;_ and so on and so forth.

And now here he was, standing in the middle of an almost extravagant parlor of some sorts, surrounded by various strangers who all looked equally intimidating, numbly wondering what, exactly, he was supposed to do now.

" _Our Summoner is sure to come find you before long,"_ Shareena had told him when she'd ushered him into this dauntingly large room full of dauntingly large people holding dauntingly large weapons. " _Go ahead and relax until then. Train, spar, eat, sleep, meet some new people, look for familiar faces―whatever you want."_

Honestly, as nice as it was to have some time to adjust after his abrupt arrival, he wouldn't have minded a little more direction. The unfamiliar setting and lack of friendly company was nerve-wracking enough without the added pressure of having to decide on a course of action. Even if this particular decision probably didn't matter.

At least he had the familiar weight of Falchion at his side and the even more familiar warmth of his cloak about his shoulders. This group―the "Order of Heroes"―had uniforms, but summoned heroes weren't required to wear them. Small mercies, he supposed.

Swallowing thickly, Marth took a few tentative steps into the hall. Luckily, his presence didn't seem to be much of an eye-catcher; most of the warriors scattered throughout the room paid him no mind, casually continuing their own conversations uninterrupted. A few pairs of eyes did flicker towards him―Marth felt the weight of each gaze, all sharp and equally heavy―but only for a moment before he was dismissed as unimportant.

Ah―yes, that would make sense, he realized with a sudden resurgence of composure. No one here was likely to recognize him, what with them all being from vastly different worlds and/or time periods. Here, he wasn't Prince Marth of Altea, the hero of Archanea and victor of the War of Shadows; he was just a scrawny blue-haired nobody with a sword too big for his belt and a woman's tiara on his head.

Since he'd been royalty in his youth and commander of the army in his... slightly less youth, Marth had never really been able to blend into the crowd like this, and, he had to say, it was pretty nice. Anonymity was strangely freeing, especially when compared to the intense pressure of the world's scrutiny which he usually carried around Archanea. Even if he did something embarrassing, like trip over his own feet or something of the sort, no one would really care. They had no reason to.

With this thought in mind, Marth lowered his head a bit and carefully made his way through the crowd, trying to remember the directions Shareena had given him to the barracks. Before anything else, he might as well try to get settled in. He did his best to ignore the brief glances a few people shot him as he weaved between them; luckily, these looks rarely lingered.

He had to squeeze between two towering figures in heavy armor to make it out the door, but even that went without a hitch, and he soon found himself back in the endless labyrinth of corridors that Alfonse and Shareena had led him through before. Taking a wild guess, he turned right and started down the hall towards―he hoped―the barracks.

Blessedly, he continued to attract very little attention―relative to the number of people he passed, at least. Unfortunately, given the fact that he passed at least a hundred people, some still took notice of him; their reactions varied wildly but were all equally embarrassing. A man with white hair and dark robes did a double-take upon catching sight of him, then began whispering furiously to his blue-haired companion; a blonde man with clothing that left his chest bare spluttered as Marth passed, tome falling out of his hands; a young girl with the same blonde hair and a cage-like dress gawked at him for a moment, then blushed crimson and politely turned away, her eyes flickering back towards him a few times.

Most surreal of all was the brunette in full armor tending his horse just outside the castle, who met Marth's eyes through the window and immediately fell into a deep bow with such utter reverence that it left Marth reeling. While the other moments had been uncomfortable, this one, in particular, was so overwhelming that he could do nothing but offer a flustered bow in return (at which point the brunette clutched his chest, looking even more stricken than Marth) and then hastily scurry off.

Fortunately, after that dramatic encounter, he didn't come across anyone else.

Unfortunately, he quickly discovered that this section of the castle was only empty because it was a dead end lined with dusty storage closets.

Least fortunately of all, when he turned around with a heavy sigh, there was someone standing right behind him.

His startled yelp echoed throughout the hall. Leaping back from the stranger, he clumsily lowered himself into a battle stance, groping for the hilt of his sword. Of course, he just ended up colliding with the wall behind him, which sent him stumbling forward, and he would've fallen flat on his face had the stranger not reached out to steady him, hands wrapping firmly around his forearms and supporting his weight as he got his feet underneath him again.

Marth looked up with wide eyes and found that his stealthy savior was looking down at him with even wider eyes, her face set in a terrified expression which, he could only imagine, reflected his perfectly. For a moment, they just stared at each other, both frozen like deer in the headlights; then they sprung away from each other as if they'd been burned, scrambling to explain themselves.

"S-sorry―gods, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you―I-I mean, not that I'm saying you were scared―I mean, n-not that there's anything wrong with being scared! I just―" the stranger stammered, hands flailing wildly in an unsuccessful attempt to articulate what her tangled words could not.

"Ah―no, no, I'm sorry―I overreacted; I shouldn't have tried to―if anything, I should be thanking you―and it's my fault I didn't hear you coming―I probably should've been paying closer attention―" Marth stammered right back, his own hands fluttering nervously in front of him.

Only then did it truly strike him just how similar they looked. The resemblance was uncanny―they wore very similar outfits, had the exact same hair and eye color (although her left eye looked a bit strange), both carried nearly identical swords at their hip, and, at the moment, both were choking out apologies and waving their arms around like idiots.

The strangeness of this situation was just enough to break him out of his stupor. "It's alright―it's alright," he reassured her, despite the unease still curled tight in his own gut. "Don't―don't worry about it. It's alright. Truly."

Miraculously, this seemed to ease the strange girl's fears at least somewhat, though she remained visibly nervous, her shoulders tense and her back ramrod straight, only further exacerbating the disparity between their heights. "R-right―thank you, Sir―er, uh, Lord―King―Marth," she said, eyes darting around anxiously as she wrung her hands. "Um. Um. You―you _are_ Pri―Ki―Lord Marth, aren't you? Of Altea?"

Oh. So he wasn't completely unknown in this world, after all. He should've expected as much, given the less-than-usual reactions he'd gotten earlier, but... "Er, yes. I am," he admitted after a moment, starting to wring his own hands before catching himself. "Prince Marth, that is. I'm, um, not a King. Or, not yet. Um―" _Breathe, Marth; breathe._ "A-and you are?"

At that, the stranger's eyes widened even further, as if she somehow hadn't anticipated that question. "O-oh! I mean―yes, of course!" she said, leaning back. "I didn't think―I mean―uh, I'm Ma― _I mean!_ Lucina! Is the name! Of me! My name! It's Lucina!"

Usually, Marth found others' embarrassment contagious; now, however, the strange girl's―Lucina's―mad ramblings gave him just the time he needed to compose himself somewhat. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lucina," he replied awkwardly, folding his hands behind his back. Then, on impulse, he added, "You have a lovely name."

Lucina looked as if Naga herself had just descended from the heavens and bestowed blessings upon her. "R-really?" she squeaked; then, "I―I mean―your name is so much better! That's why I―" Her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, face going redder than a Macedonian's hair. "I mean―nevermind! Forget that! I didn't say anything! I wasn't _going_ to say anything!"

Marth just blinked back at her for a moment, befuddled, and she hastily reigned herself in. "Er―that is to say―th-thank you very much for the compliment, Sir Lord Prince Marth, sir! It's... it's quite the honor."

He blushed. "You're welcome, and... you can just call me 'Marth'."

"Y-you mean it?" Lucina replied, looking almost as stricken as that brunette man when Marth had returned his bow.

"Of course. I'm not really Lord or Prince of anything here in Askr, so..." When he could think of nothing else to say, he just trailed off and coughed into his elbow, averting his eyes.

For a moment, Lucina didn't respond. When she finally did, her quiet "Okay," was shaky and winded. Curiosity getting the better of him, Marth glanced back up, only to find her staring down at him with something like awe, admiration clear in the sparkle of her eyes.

Caught off-guard, Marth blushed furiously, fighting the urge to shy away. "Er. Ah. Was there..." He'd forgotten how to use words properly. "W-was there something you needed?"

Biting her lip, Lucina nodded slowly, her eyes flickering away again. "Um," was all she seemed to be able to say, though, her face going significantly darker than Marth's. "Um. I. Um."

With trembling hands, she reached into the small bag hanging at her side and produced a small piece of fine parchment and a pen. Clutching them to her chest, she breathed deep and tried again. "I, um. I was wondering if. If you. If I could. Um. If I could ask. You. Um."

She paused. Then, squeezing her eyes shut, Lucina bowed at nearly a ninety-degree angle, the top of her head brushing against Marth's chestplate. Marth stumbled back a step with a soft gasp, but, before he could say anything, Lucina's hands shot out as she held the paper and pen out before her, practically shoving them into his chest.

"A-a-a-a-autograph?" she squeaked.

If Marth had been flustered before, then he wasn't even sure what to call himself now. "M-me?" he asked dumbly, pointing a finger at himself as if there was anyone else around that she might be talking to. "Y-you―you want―autograph― _me?!"_

Lucina nodded enthusiastically without straightening out of her steep bow. "I-I was raised on legends of you and your sword," she said, voice quivering with emotions he couldn't identify. "You... you were always such an inspiration to me. Hero King Marth, who overcame seemingly insurmountable odds. And I―I probably wouldn't be here today... if... if it wasn't for... the courage you gave me. S-so..."

She raised her head for a split second, her eyes overflowing with hope, before hastily bending back down.

"Please," she murmured, "a-autograph?"

A good five seconds passed of Marth just opening and closing his mouth repeatedly, utterly dumbstruck. So much blood rushed to his head that he could feel his pulse pounding in the back of his skull. "I―" he tried helplessly. "I'm not―"

But what was there to say? He was no hero, but this world had chosen _him;_ he was no legend, but he knew they would be written; he was certainly no inspiration, but―

But Lucina seemed to think he was, and who was he to question her motives? He couldn't deny her emotions, even if he hadn't done anything to warrant such fierce respect. Even if he didn't think he was capable of earning it.

With trembling hands, Marth gingerly took the pen and parchment from Lucina, who still had yet to rise. For a moment, he floundered, unsure of what to do; then, swallowing thickly, he carefully spread the paper over the back of his non-dominant hand, gripping the pen tightly in the other.

' _To Lucina,'_ he wrote, penmanship as atrocious as ever, not helped by his quivering body. ' _Stay strong. -Marth.'_

The words were so trite as to be completely useless, even assuming that you could read them; his signature was a cramped scrawl, the letters distorted where the pen had caught on his veins under the paper; in total, what he'd written took up maybe a quarter of the parchment, his lopsided writing crammed into the corner as if it needed to leave room for something else. Yet, when Lucina took it from his outstretched hand, slowly straightening back up, she held it between her fingertips like precious china, scanning the words with something like disbelief.

He could've sworn that her breath hitched.

Then, cradling the autograph to her chest, Lucina cried "Th-thank you so much!", bowed again, and took off, barreling down the hallway at top speed until she whirled around the corner and vanished from sight.

Marth stared after her numbly for a good long while, his eyes still wide, the pen still dangling from his fingers. Then, with a slight sniffle, he rubbed his arm over his eyes and ducked his head to hide a shaky smile.


End file.
